


Future Tense

by unbelievable2



Category: The Mighty Boosh RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-13 03:01:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1210240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unbelievable2/pseuds/unbelievable2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story involving Noel and Julian.<br/>It’s difficult, making that first move. More difficult than letting go?</p><p>My one and only RPF, a story from 2011 reflecting the gradual fade-out of Boosh, which includes a small topical nod to Noel's Kate Bush impersonation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Future Tense

Julian looks up from the guitar he’s restringing to where Noel is sitting on the desk, swinging his legs.  
“What?”  
“ I said ‘We… are… going to… lose… America.’” Noel carefully and patiently enunciates every word. He’s trying to look non-committal, but suspects he looks like he’s glaring. Julian’s carefully-guarded expression during the earlier part of their conversation – idle chit-chat, no more – has certainly changed to something harder.

“Goodness me,” he says acidly, twanging a string. “How very careless of us. Though frankly I wasn’t clear it was ours to lose in the first place.”  
“You know what I mean, Ju. Decisions need to be made. String them along much longer and they’ll lose interest.”  
“Or maybe it means they weren’t that interested in the first place?”  
It’s a glare now, all right. On both sides.

“Stop dancing , Julian. Either we do it or we don’t. We need to decide which way we’re going.”  
“Really? What happened to good old organic growth? Suited us before, didn’t it? At least we managed to be ourselves then.”  
“You know the whole thing’s too big for that now…”  
“Yeah? Well, maybe that’s just the problem…”

Twang. Twing twang. Noel sighs.  
“Yeah, okay, so we’re having to deal with new ways of working. Isn’t it worth it, if we break through further?”  
“To what?”  
“You know very well what! Bigger audiences, bigger budgets, you know…”  
“Same old product…”  
“Oh, right, we’re back to that, are we? ‘Our work is done; it has nothing more to say’”. He strikes a mock-tragic pose on the desk, crook of his elbow over his eyes.  
“Don’t piss about. You know what I mean. As an idea, it’s spent. We’re bored of it. I’m bored. You’re bored. I know you are. It won’t do either of us any good. You’ve said so yourself.”  
“Only when I was angry. And messed-up.”  
“And you are neither of those things now, then?”  
Noel gives him an up-from-under-the-lashes glare.  
“I have my moments.”

Julian heaves a great sigh and reaches back to lean the guitar against the wall behind the couch.  
“Give it a rest, yeah? I’m not ready to sell the rest of my soul.”  
“Oh, do me a favour!” Noel jumps up and starts to pace. “Who’s asking you to do that? And anyway, why are you the only one who has artistic integrity all of a sudden…? For fuck’s sake…”  
Julian holds up his hands.  
“I’m sorry! Sorry! All right? I didn’t mean to imply…”  
“Bollocks!”  
“I didn’t… well, yes, that’s a good word, actually. You were talking bollocks if you really think I don’t know you care just as much as I do about the work. Why are we even having this argument? Anything we do has to work for both of us, of course it does! It’s just… it’s just… well, you know what I think. I don’t think we should push ourselves into repeating the same stuff just because someone thinks it makes ‘commercial sense’…” – he air-quotes – “… ‘cos that’s not us! It’s never been us! It’s anathema to me and to you! If we’re going to grow we need to move on, change it all around. Everything.”

Noel steps closer to the couch.  
“Since when did all that become mutually exclusive? Bloody hell, Ju, since when did we ever stick in one groove? Everything we’ve ever done has changed from one day to the next. To keep it fresh. Always to keep it fresh. Christ, we don’t even write consistently. Our characters change with every page. You know they do. That’s us. Our one rule is that we have no rules!”  
“And you think they’ll let us stick to that?”  
“’They’? Who’s ‘they’, for fuck’s sake?”  
“Bad people, Vince. Grey people. Grey people with bad ju-ju…”  
“Jesus, Julian, take this seriously!”

Julian stands up suddenly, eyebrows knotted, face like thunder.   
“I fucking am taking it fucking seriously!” He steps forward and he’s towering over Noel. He seems to have grown two foot taller in his anger. And all Noel can think is “bring it on, sunshine.”

Julian is on a roll now.  
“The moment we got ‘successful’…” – he air-quotes again, with blistering sarcasm - “… then we started to play their game. Yeah, they made us do it, okay? I fell into it the same as you. But can you honestly tell me you saw what they did to the show in the States – to our work – and your heart didn’t break when you saw the wilful murder? The cold-blooded dismemberment of everything we’d put together so carefully? That took so much blood and sweat and bloody tears? Can you imagine what it would be like working with that pressure day in, day out?”  
“So, we make it work for us. We’ve got a great fan-base – fantastic people – we’ll get a lot of support….”  
“Oh, use your brain! You think they’d let us? We’re not powerful enough to fight corporate entertainment! And we sure as fuck never wanted to be corporate entertainment before, so what makes it different now? It’ll destroy us, Noel. It’ll destroy everything we’ve ever worked for…”

“You’d better go off and do a bit more Chekhov, mate. I don’t think it’s quite out of your system yet.”  
Noel turns on his heel, only to be yanked back by a hand on his arm.  
“Don’t bloody turn your back on me! You’re honestly going to tell me you’d stick to this because it makes good business-sense, and that alone?”  
Noel is truly angry now, and he can’t resist stringing Julian along in his self-important rant.  
“Well, we all gotta eat, Julian. And pay tuition fees. Guess I need to keep myself in the manner, as well, don’t I? ‘Cos I’ll cease to function without a perennial spotlight on me…”

There is acid to his tone and it’s enough to make Julian hesitate. Noel pulls back, shaking his arm free and readjusting his sleeve.  
“It’s not about 'it', Ju! 'It’s' not 'it'. 'It' is what 'we' make it. 'We' make it! 'Us'!” 

It’s probably the longest sentence he’s ever constructed out of monosyllables and definite and indefinite articles, but that’s lost on him right now.  
“So…?”  
“So… nothing. No! I don’t mean that! So… can’t you see it’s about the process, not the product? Isn’t it? Hasn’t it always been? Or….”  
“Don’t say it, Noel.” Julian’s tone is warning.  
“Or are we now on different pages?”  
“I sometimes wonder if we’re on the same bloody planet…”  
“Oh, arseholes! What’s that supposed to mean? Since when do you not ever know what’s in my head?”  
“For a long time, I didn’t…”  
“Yeah?”   
They look at each other, breathing hard. “Yeah, well that was a while ago. Aren’t we over that now?”  
“You tell me…”  
“Julian, I’m only asking…”  
“What you actually never come out and say…”  
“I’m only asking… some kind of indication would be helpful, Julian. Some sign that I’m not entirely wasting my energy…”  
“When you’ve got other and better things to do?”  
“Well, you said it.”  
“Oh, piss off!”  
“Isn’t it entirely understandable….”  
“Beats me…”  
“…that I’d actually like to know where we’re going?”

There is a pause.  
“That,” says Julian, levelly, “presupposes that we are actually going somewhere.”

The click of Noel’s jaw dropping at that painful statement of logic is entirely lost in the crash of the door bursting open, hammering back against the wall. First one, then another dark- blond head pokes round the corner, their owners clearly in fits of giggles. Julian strides towards them.  
“Oi, I told you, not now! Uncle Noel and Daddy are working. Talking. Go on, git, you varmints!”  
He blocks them with his legs as the two small boys try to make it into the room, and manoeuvres them outside again. Gales of hiccupping laughter surround him.

Noel can’t help but smile at the bellowed “Julia, they’re up here again!” He never really likes other people’s children; they tend to pull focus. But these two, he can’t help himself; as beautiful and awkward as their parents. He positively relishes their company. Just a shame that…. Oh, come on. You can’t blame toddlers for the failings of their elders. It’s not the twins that are at fault…..

He hears an amused voice calling from downstairs. Julian stomps back into the room, a tattered piece of paper in his hand. It had been pinned to the other side of the door, and reads ‘DAMN WELL KNOCK, ALRIGHT?’ Julian tosses it aside.  
“Ju, they’re not yet four. Sarcasm’s a bit lost on them, yeah?”

Julian snorts his amusement, running a hand through his hair. It’s got long again, Noel notes, and he’s looking leaner and rangier. That’s why the boots and waistcoat worked so well…  
Noel sits down suddenly on the hard chair by the desk, a sharp realisation hitting him somewhere around his solar plexus. This little attic room, Julian’s retreat, is a time machine. Barratt is suddenly his skinny, hyper, prickly, vulnerable alter ego of almost fifteen years ago. Noel grins privately. It’s practically worth the sheer bloody aggravation of the last half-hour to see the younger Julian still in there, hidden away behind the seriously-assumed mantel of father, ac-tor, businessman. It’s a pleasure to see the fire still burning…

Julian picks up his mug and dumps it down again.  
“Ugh, cold. You want some more tea?”  
“Nah, ‘m fine, ta.” 

Noel is still watching him warily, but Julian merely plonks himself down on the couch again. He looks at Noel properly now, perhaps for the first time during his visit.  
”That’s new.” He gestures towards Noel’s torso. “Shirt.”

The break in the atmosphere is as sudden as it is ridiculous. One moment they are discussing life and death; the next, fashion.

Noel looks down at his dark blue shirt. Indigo – no, pyranthene blue.  
“Leeds.”  
“Nice. Looks nice.”

Noel smiles awkwardly. He feels unbalanced by the sudden switch of focus. But he knows it’s in lieu of Julian’s apology for his temper-tantrum, and their fight. No point in pushing things anymore today. Or ever, maybe. 

He gets up quickly, moving to the window to give himself something to do, and makes a deliberate show of leaning out to look at the garden below, raising one booted foot in showy counterbalance.  
“Careful, you’ll lose the wig…”  
Back to banter; always the easiest escape route, eh, Julian?

He pulls in to face Julian again, and pretends to admire the attic office, even though he has been in there many, many times before.

“Eeeee, Barratt’s garret! Thou’ve coom oop in t’world, lad!”  
Julian makes a face, both at the accent and the sentiment.  
“Yep, all of twenty feet from the second floor.”

Noel keeps plugging away. There’s only a small amount of needle in there now; he’s weary.  
“Yeah, but it’s all you’ve ever wanted. Eh, Ju? A writer’s retreat. On your own at last to think great thoughts and tell the rest of us about the human condition.” 

He grins; Julian doesn’t even rise to the bait. He’s just staring at the window, now blazing with late afternoon sun. Noel has talked himself back into calm resignation, and marks it all down to just another day in the Saga of Not-Going-Anywhere. Oh, he could make his decisions. Has been doing. They both have. But for himself it’s only felt like a long, necessary period of regrouping, of pulling his sorry shit together to show Julian that things really can change, can improve and refresh. And having travelled that road it’s a shocker to find that you’re the only one, it seems, committed to that journey. And that now you’re back, you’re on your own….

Is this really how it ends?

“Of course it’s not,” says Julian suddenly, speaking to the window.

Noel is hit by sudden terror, staring at Julian with wide eyes. He didn’t say that out loud, did he? Please god, he never! Not the most unspeakable of words, the thing they would never say, will never say, can never say…

Is this really how it ends?

But Julian is still speaking.  
“Of course it’s not all I ever wanted. I don’t want to be solitary. I never did. You know me well enough to know it’s my worst nightmare. I have what I want already.” He looks quickly at Noel and then glances away again to stare at the floor.  
“Had that. Have that…”  
His voice tails off, his hands pulling through his hair and then rubbing at his brow.

Noel is frozen to the spot. A whole host of contrary feelings assail him. Is this about 'us', or is it about 'them' – Julian’s other life, with family and commitments? ‘Cos if it’s about 'us', then shit, he’s been giving the poor bugger a hard time he didn’t deserve. Because the man isn’t assigning their past to the Land of Last Things, is he? He’s as cut and torn by this as Noel is. Neither of them wants to be the one to acknowledge that the mirrors have to move around again, the scenery has to change; that it’s time for what seemed unshakeable, immutable, to mutate yet again.

Julian is still looking at the floor.  
“That’s what I liked,” he says quietly, and then stops.  
Noel swallows.  
“What, Ju?”  
Julian looks up. His eyes are dark and he looks weary, but there’s a touch of a smile there.  
“I liked it when it was only us.”

Noel freezes for a heart-beat, and then he is off the chair and on his knees in front of the couch, Julian’s hands firmly in his own, his forehead pressed to Julian’s. They stay that way for some time; a long time.

Just breathing.

Somewhere a clock chimes five. Noel says:  
“Shit, I’d better go. I got…”  
“Yeah.”  
Neither moves for a moment, then Noel pulls back and looks searchingly in Julian’s eyes. Julian doesn’t flinch. The half smile is still there, and his thumbs are chafing Noel’s hands absently.

We’re still alive, thinks Noel. He leans forward and kisses Julian’s cheek.

“You keep thinking, Einstein. It’s what you’re good at.”  
“Oh yeah? Bit too much of that, I think.”  
“Well I’ll come round tomorrow and take you out on the piss. Give your brain a break.”  
“Yeah. No, hell, not tomorrow. We’ve got…”  
Noel squeezes Julian’s hands and smiles brightly before he gets up. “That’s okay, anytime you’re…”  
“Wednesday?” asks Julian quickly.  
Noel’s smile becomes broader.  
“Perfect! And in the meantime, if you come to any conclusions…”  
“I’ll ring you.”  
“Yeah…”

Noel looks around for his jacket and shrugs it on.  
“Is that all you’re wearing?” Julian looks concerned. “It’s fucking freezing out there, for all it’s supposed to be Spring!”  
“I’m hardy, me….”  
“No, hang on.” Julian rummages around amongst a pile of things by the couch and drags out a lengthy striped scarf.

“Put this on, for Chrissake. You’ll catch your death….”  
“Look, mate…”  
“Put it on!”

And Julian puts it on for Noel anyway, wrapping it round and round until Noel feels his top half is going to be mummified. Julian appraises his work and grins. Then, suddenly serious again, he pulls Noel to him in a hard hug. It last even longer than usual, and Julian’s breath is warm between the scarf and the skin of Noel’s neck. 

“I promise. I’ll ring you.”

Noel shuts the door softly behind him, and slips down the narrow flights of the staircase to the tiled entry hall. He hesitates at the sitting-room door. The muted musical burbling of the television and sporadic childish chatter he can hear mean that the twins have been distracted by CBeebies. It’s useful, to be honest. The last thing Uncle Noel needs right now is a double-dose of Junior Barratt. He’s tired and worn down enough as it is. With only slight pangs of guilt he eases open the front door and silently leaves.

The last of the afternoon sun is golden and cold, the flaring light over the neighbouring terraces shedding no warmth at all now. But it hits the parked cars with a flash that makes the eyes water and the still-bare trees stand out all the more starkly. He hunches his jacket round him and tightens Julian’s scarf, and heads for the gate.

He’s just released the catch when his phone vibrates. Reaching for it is automatic, as is the glance at the name that flashes up.

JULIAN

He’s answering before the oddness of the call has a chance to sink in.  
“Hmmmm?”  
“All right?”  
He turns to face the house and see Julian at the garret window, phone to his ear, wry grin on his face.  
“Well, yeah, I still am, amazingly, seeing as how I last saw you seventeen seconds ago…”

He frowns and waits. There seems to be an audio-visual mismatch somewhere because he’s sure he can see Julian’s lips moving but he’s not hearing anything.

“What is it?” he prompts, feeling narked. Should he get a ladder?  
“Julian, your signal’s not much cop, mate.” He almost smiles at the unintentional double-meaning. He’s about to turn again when the phone pipes up.  
“Noel, I was just thinking….”

Noel blinks hard. It’s not the afternoon glare causing that sudden sting in his eyes. For a moment, he’s back in the time machine; there’s something very reminiscent about this phone conversation. 

He squints at the figure in the top window. Julian is leaning out now, phone clamped to one ear and his other hand raised, finger pointing skywards, in a “hang on a mo” gesture. He looks bright and feral, hair awry; his eyes, which should look dark, are sparking. Noel’s heart jolts again at the image of that Julian from long ago, but he feels like giggling too, at the upraised hand, a kind of Rasta pope.

He stares upwards, hand on hip. He thinks he recognises the set-up, and he’s preparing for the pay-off. It seems as natural as it ever did….

The phone is speaking again.  
“I was wondering. Would you… Noel, would you like to write the next cult comedy sleeper hit? With me?”

Noel stretches the pause to its ultimate, then shrugs his left shoulder slightly. Acquiescence? Equivocation? The face in the window is still burning bright, but there is a sudden flash of doubt in the eyes. It’s all the confirmation he needs that his answer means as much to Julian as it does to him.

He doesn’t break the gaze. He waits another beat, and then grins.  
“Well, I don’t have much on…”

_FIN_


End file.
